


You have (1) new message

by OMG_Orlaith



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Post-Reichenbach, text
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OMG_Orlaith/pseuds/OMG_Orlaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach, but John is having none of it. He is refusing to see, speak to, or even think about Sherlock Holmes. After three weeks, John decides to reply after Mrs Hudson begs him. And so the drama ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I know that this sickens you

**Author's Note:**

> (Short first chapter, but I think this could go somewhere. Hope you enjoy!)

The buzzing from my phone is getting rather irritating. I would set it on silent, but I'm a bit worried that it could be a call from work, or someone else. But it never usually is: it's always the same message. The exact same message that I've received every day for over three weeks. For twenty two days, actually. And I haven't replied to a single one, and don't intend to.

The persistent humming is now very distracting, so I shuffle over to the end of the couch and pick it up. Begrudgingly, I click on the "open text" option to reveal, lo and behold, the text identical to the other twenty or so in my inbox...

John,

Please. I am so sorry. Let me explain?

-SH

I give it a quick read, then press delete and toss my phone to the side with a stony expression. After a while, it gets a lot easier to delete them. After the first one, I was so paralysed with shock that I wasn't sure how to respond. I thought perhaps it was a sick joke, so I didn't let it get to me.

The next day, it arrived again. This time, I got a bit worried. I showed it to Mycroft, who looked as though I'd shown him a text from his deceased great-grandmother. He had only just come to terms with his brother's death; I had never really come to terms with it. Never the less, we both knew that this text meant something was up. Why would anyone play this kind of joke three years after someone has died? He immediately sent it in for tracking- the results showed that they had been sent from a small, seedy hotel near Mayfair. Mycroft sent some of his men in to discover what we all thought was impossible.

They returned with the news that a tired, rather worse-for-wear Sherlock Holmes was laying on his bed, asking to see John Watson. Mycroft's eyes filled with tears of happiness, and he turned to me, beaming.

"John! Did you hear that?"

I nodded, lips thin and eyes closed. When I opened them, I could see panic on Mycroft's face.

"You are going to go, John?"

I shook my head.

But that was three weeks ago, and although Sherlock has been reacquainted with most of our friends, I refuse to let him into this flat. No explanation he has will ever be good enough. Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft...they all beg me to go see him. They tell me he's not the same without me. But all they are doing is pouring salt on already deep wounds.

I could go, you know. I could run to him and cry "Sherlock!" and tell him that everything will be perfect and that nothing matters except that we're together, but that isn't me. That isn't anyone, except people who live in a perfect world. So, yeah, that isn't anyone.

I don't want to seem ungrateful. If it was under any other circumstances, I would feel overwhelmingly lucky. But showing up unannounced after three years, and getting our friends to talk him up to me... I don't know. I just can't think about it too much.

I hear another beep from my phone. That's odd; as consistent as Sherlock is, he never sends me more than one a day. Curious, I press open.

John,

I know that this sickens you, but I am asking you not as Sherlock's brother, but as someone who cares for the both of you- please come.

-MH

I scoff, deleting it quicker than the others. Mycroft had welcomed his brother back with open arms, and from what I've heard, shown his more affection than he ever had before. He visited every day, bringing Sherlock food, clothes, money. Whatever he needed. He also offered to upgrade his accommodation, but Sherlock had insisted on staying at the hotel until he saw me. Mycroft, although disapproving that I am giving Sherlock the cold shoulder, is still on speaking terms with me, and gives me updates whenever he can. He also implores me to accompany him. Every single time.

I rub my eyes, ready for a rest, when Mrs Hudson raps on my door.

"John! Please. He's worse today! No matter what we say to him...he just want to see you." Her voice sounds so helpless and terrified that I answer the door. As I open it, I see her face streaked with tears. She looks so vulnerable; it hurts my heart a little.

"Please." Her voice breaks on that one word.

I give her a half-smile, and against everything I have stood for in these past weeks; I don't agree to visiting, but I agree to reply.

I type about ten possible messages; most of them seem either too pathetic or too harsh. I finally find one.

Sherlock,

I will consider it. But first you have to give me a while.

-JW

Within thirty seconds, I receive the reply.

John,

That is all I ask for.

-SH


	2. Type new entry

I hammer down on the keys, attempting to focus fully on the laptop screen. It’s growing increasingly harder to pay attention to what I’m writing, due to Mrs Hudson and Greg whispering at the door. I can’t help but throw a few glances over my shoulder every few moments. Greg has checked his watch three times in the past five minutes, and I soon discover the reason why; Mycroft arrives.

Looking rather worse for wear, with tired eyes set in a pale face, Mycroft Holmes nods in my direction and turns to murmur something in Mrs Hudson’s ear. She grimaces, and then repeats the news to Greg. Even though I am eavesdropping (quite intently, I must admit), they are being so unashamedly secretive that it unnerves me a little. Part of me is desperate to hear what they’re saying; despite it obviously being about Sherlock. Judging by their reactions, it’s something important. Curiosity eventually gets the better of me.

“I don’t appreciate the whispering.” I announce, looking over my shoulder.  
This grabs their attention. They face me; all the stares are intimidating, challenging me to speak again, waiting for me to ask about Sherlock. I begin my typing again, until Mycroft clears his throat.  
“We didn’t think that this news would be of interest to you, John.” He rocks back and forth on his heels, eyes boring into mine.  
“I didn’t say I was interested.” I reply quietly. “I was simply stating that the whispers were distracting me from my work.”  
I finish the sentence unconvincingly.  
Greg, who, leaning against the door jamb, has been seemingly unnoticeable, walks casually over to the sofa next to me and sits down. I pretend not to notice, but as Mrs Hudson and Mycroft join him, I can’t help but look up.  
“Well, we have news for you, anyway.” Greg states.  
I mumble something about not wanting to hear it, but my complaints fall on deaf ears. I turn to Mrs Hudson, the more...compassionate of the three, and throw her a beseeching look. She simply ignores me.

“Do you know that all he’s asked for since he returned was to see you?” Greg begins.  
I’m unsure how to reply to this, so as not to offend anyone or to seem too unsympathetic.  
“I’ve heard something like that, yes.” I answer, as nonchalantly as I can. The three sets of raised eyebrows in front of me are rather disconcerting.  
“Well, it’s all he talks about. No matter what we talk about, he always steers the conversation towards you, John. In person, while texting, or on the phone, whatever. It’s not good for him. It’s not good for anyone to be racked with guilt like this...”  
I scoff loudly, not so worried about being offensive as before.  
“Really? So it’s guilt that motivates him to send me the same bloody text every day?”  
“What text?” Mycroft blurts out.  
Oh. So he doesn’t know. Only Mrs Hudson knows.

Damn it.

“Oh, just the same thing he’s been asking you to tell me, probably? ‘Please forgive me?’ Without any sincerity, I guess.”  
Mycroft looks aghast, the first time I’ve even seen him look anything like surprised.  
“Without sincerity? Have you not heard about the state he’s been in, John?”  
“To get you guys to give him a good review so I’ll forgive him? Doesn’t sound very heart-felt to me.” I retort, disgruntled.  
“The only thing he ever asked us to say is that he is sorry, John. That’s it.” Mycroft has regained his composure, and is sitting with his knees crossed, perhaps a bit nettled.  
“Is there any actual proof of this guilt-ridden Sherlock?” I ask, finally.  
All three of them take out their phones silently, and slide them across the coffee table. I pick up Mycroft’s blackberry first, and scroll down his inbox, seeing all the messages. I open the one at the top, sent at half ten this morning.

Sherlock,  
Going out today. Text if you need anything?  
-MH

Mycroft,  
You’re going to see John, aren’t you?  
-SH

I didn’t say that.  
-MH

Tell him I’m sorry.  
-SH

I set the blackberry down wordlessly. The next phone I pick up is Mrs Hudson’s. To my surprise, a very sleek Android is her method of communication. I open her texts, and click on one of the later ones from Sherlock, sent at half nine at night last Thursday.

Sherlock,  
Molly and I are going out, darling, to that lovely Chinese down the street. You know; the one that you like? It would be lovely if you could make it.  
-Mrs Hudson x

Mrs Hudson,  
I’m afraid that I’ll have to decline your invitation. It is a little too close to John, and I’m going to respect his wishes. Thank you anyway.  
-SH

I feel a strange pang in my chest, but I fight it. Well, at least I fight to prevent it from registering on my face. Greg’s texts are a little longer to sort through, as his inbox has a staggering five hundred messages, most from co-workers. I finally find a suitable message; the first one Sherlock sent him after he came back. This time, it was Sherlock who had started the conversation.

Lestrade,  
Have you been to 221B recently?  
-SH

Sherlock,  
Would you like me to pick up something for you there, or are you just wondering?  
-GL

I didn’t want this to happen.  
-SH

None of us did. But it’s not your fault.  
-GL

I’m sorry. I really am.  
-SH

I know you are. Why are you apologizing?  
-GL

I’m so sorry. Tell him. But tell him, don’t make him.  
-SH

What are you on about, Sherlock?  
-GL

Don’t make him forgive me. Do not make him.  
-SH

After I finish scrolling, I return the phones to their owners. Keeping an emotionless face is getting harder, so I say my goodbyes and thank them for coming. They leave without arguing, obviously noticing the effect it had on me.  
I would deny it, but it did affect me.  
I close the door, and take a few moments. I stroll back to the couch, and pick up my laptop. I exit out of the email I was previously typing, and open a new tab. I click “Type new entry”, and am relocated to a blank page, except for the title.  
The Personal Blog of Dr John H. Watson.  
I hadn’t made a blog entry in over three years. I’m not even sure what I should write about. Never the less, I begin typing.

28 February, 8:23 pm  
How to text  
...............................


	3. Murder, revenge, vendetta

“Do you know what these are?” Lestrade asks, blankly.  
He’s been here for about ten minutes, and at first we were making rather pleasant conversation, but then the topic quickly and not very subtly changed to Sherlock. Just to be polite, I asked him how Sherlock was doing, et cetera, just to be amiable. But as always, questions and accusations were hurled in my direction.  
“Why are you doing this? You’re only hurting yourself...”  
“Why won’t you visit?”  
Or, the much more cruel, “Do you want him to suffer?”  
The last one was delivered, like a slap to the face, by the distraught Mrs Holmes, about two weeks ago. She was the most appalled by Sherlock’s “letting himself go” (as she gently put it.) She then, noticeably less gently, demanded to know why I’m so heartlessly neglecting her son. It took her a good half an hour to regain her composure. Never the less, Mycroft, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson still refuse to force me into meeting Sherlock.  
Although it wouldn’t hurt for them to talk about something else, from time to time.  
I turn my attention back to Lestrade.

“I asked you what these are, John.” He murmured. He rolls some cylindrical objects onto the coffee table. About twenty used syringes, all of them empty.  
The shock renders me frozen for a few moments. Sherlock’s been using again...  
“I know what they are.” I mumble, avoiding his gaze. He looks at me solemnly, compresses his lips and collects the needles.                            
“Do you care?” He questions, trying to act nonchalant, yet clearly knowing that this packs a punch.  
“I care as much as I would if this were happening to an acquaintance.” I reply, polite and concise. “A distant one.” I add.  
Greg gets up, smoothens out the creases in his suit, and makes excuses about being late for a meeting. He is sporting a look of not defeat, but dejection. I don’t feel sorry for him, however. Not after the “do I care” remark. I show him to the door.  
“Think about it?” He requests.  
At this, I give up.  
“No! No, I’ve thought about it enough. I am not going within a ten-mile radius of Sherlock Holmes, so stop bloody asking!” Red in the face and my lungs hurting a little from bellowing, I step aside. I instantly regret taking it out on Lestrade, but part of me hopes that he’s finally gotten the message. That same part of me wonders if I should ask him to pass it along to Mrs Hudson and Mycroft as well.  
“I am sorry.” He tells me. In his defence, he does sound genuine. His eyes are apologetic and he seems docile, despite having just been roared at. “I just...look, it doesn’t matter. I’ll lay off for a while, m’kay?” He proposes. I shake my head slightly to show agreement. “Can I ask you one favour, though?”  
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “That really depends on what it is. Or, actually, who it involves.”  
He hands me a manila envelope, plastered with labels and official-looking stamps. In it is a document, most likely a report. I skim through it, the more I read the more my stomach turns. As I finish, I slip the papers onto the coffee table and nod. Greg knows I agree. How could I not, after reading that?  
Once he is out of sight, I return to read the report more thoroughly, my stomach a knot as I finish every paragraph.

The Investigation into the recent criminal activity of  
Moriarty, J.

'The Investigative Department of Scotland Yard would like to express their concern over the continuing spike in criminal behaviour directly related to “Jim” James Moriarty. Believed to be dead until recently, the well-known criminal is believed to be armed and highly dangerous...'  
And so it continues.  
They are just words, really. Just sentences printed on paper. If I’d seen it on the news, or read it online, the words “murder”, “revenge” and “vendetta” are rather commonplace and would certainly not have had such an effect on me. But when you see your own name every third sentence, it gets to you a little.  
There’s a yellow sticky note stuck to the last page, written with Lestrade’s handwriting.

John,  
I just thought that you should know this. We’d really appreciate your help. And if you need any assistance yourself, you know which hotel room to call.  
Regards,  
-GL.


End file.
